


Trouble

by sonshineandshowers



Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Comedy, Gen, Hijacked Vehicle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Martin escapes! "You think you’ve seen trouble, well you’re lookin’ at the man."Martin's Murder Playlist Series: Hard Time Losin' Man.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Hijacked Vehicle.
Series: Martin's Murder Playlist [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685980
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hard Time Losin' Man](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/577117) by Jim Croce (performed by). 



Martin had all his bases covered.

His business counterparts wired Mr. David a lump sum he could comfortably retire on and spend the rest of his days coaching soccer — his, and now his kids’ favorite sport. “A thank you for your protection,” Martin explained, his hands clasping around Mr. David’s, yet quickly disbanding upon a glare.

He stashed a forever growing collection of sporks in a hollowed out book. Safe keeping to be turned into a veritable knife if need be. “Could I have another utensil?” he asked Mr. David. “Seem to have lost the last one.”

But it didn’t happen once, it happened over and _over_.

“I see what you’re doing,” Mr. David leveled a stare from his chair across the room.

Martin paused, a spork half up his shirt sleeve. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me where they are.”

Martin stayed silent, his head trained forward, yet his eyes looking to his bookshelf.

“Back wall, patient,” Mr. David commanded.

 _The Count of Monte Cristo_ had a few too many weapons stashed inside. Mr. David confiscated the contraband and removed the loose one from Martin’s arm.

“Do I need to do a search?”

“ _Well_ , I just might like it,” Martin teased, tilting his hips.

Mr. David shook his head and retreated, giving the cache of materials to another guard outside the door.

Martin collected his things one piece at a time. His most prized drawings. Most interesting patient files. Charger, iPod.

And waited for _The Three Musketeers_ to arrive.

It had a flashy jacket, proclaiming swashbuckling in red and black, yet when he cracked the cover, inside was a set of keys. He added his other important effects and homed the book on the shelf.

With a cheshire grin, he put in his headphones and looked forward to tomorrow — _And you think you’ve seen trouble, well you’re lookin’ at the man, uh-huh —_ the world’s own original Surgeon. He didn’t lose.

* * *

Martin woke to no guards in his cell. The tether to his back had been cut. He looked around the four walls, realizing — _this is really happening_.

He collected his book, ruffled his hair to look more presentable, and tried the door. It swung open, releasing him into the hall. _It’s really, **really** happening._

He disappeared into the stairway and fished the keys out of the book. “ _A car that’s made for you_ ,” his business counterparts had said. “Beautiful.”

It also helped that it belonged to the hospital chief executive. A small detail that was neither here nor there to the world, yet Martin very much appreciated. It could have been a jalopy, and he wouldn’t have cared.

Martin palmed the stolen keys and ran down the stairs. He punched the solid bar on the emergency exit, and he was — _outside_. Fresh aiiiirrrrr. Greeeen graasssss. Hiiiigh on Moootheeer Naaatuuureee’s liiiiifeeeeblooood.

The alarm blared and snapped him back to the task at hand. Get to the car.

He ran, pressing every button on the key fob, finding the car when the lights blinked and the horn sounded, adding an answer to the hospital’s shrieking outrage. Squeeeee — onnnhhhhh — squeeeee — onnnhhhhh. A _Porsche_.

There were worse things to drive.

He unlocked the door and got inside, but couldn’t figure out how to shut the alarm off. He turned the car on and figured it would sort itself out if he drove enough. He pulled out of the lot and gunned it for the gate, deciding he might as well live a little along the way. Surely, _he_ deserved it.

He deserved everything.

He crashed through the lowered gate arm, the barrier more a suggestion than an ultimatum. On the other side of the hospital grounds, he let out a screech. “Eeeeeee,” he zinged, wanting to do _all the things_ at once.

He _got on the highway_ and drove for Jersey, figuring his way to freedom involved clearing the state and heading west until no one would lay claim to him. The Badlands? Alaska? An island in the Pacific?

He passed the _Welcome to New Jersey_ sign and let out a “Wahooooo!” tasting freedom on the lesser quality air. Perhaps he’d need to slum it in his car a few nights, but anything beat talking to that cell any longer. He didn’t like the echo that talked back.

He caught a pothole, the whole car thudding, and jolted in the seat. “ _Dammit!_ Don’t you care for these roads at all?” Martin seethed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

“The world is my pasture. You are all my sheep,” Martin soothed himself. “The world is my pasture. You are all my sheep.”

The car clunked again, bottoming out in a crater of a pothole. “ _Goddammit!_ “ he roared, the jerk from the hit shooting through his spine.

The crunch that followed was more disturbing. His eye line was no longer straight. Tha-thud, tha-thunk, tha-thud — his getaway vehicle had a flat tire.

“ _Fuck!_ “ he hollered, fighting not to pull the car to the side of the road.

He heard dragging underneath the vehicle and knew he wouldn’t make it far if he didn’t stop to correct it. He pulled to the shoulder and hid behind the flat, right front tire, looking at the damage.

 _Need to tie the exhaust pipe back to the undercarriage_. Taking off his hospital-issued belt, he tied the car back together to a version that would move without dragging.

He risked popping the trunk to retrieve the spare and ducked behind the vehicle again to repair the tire.

_How do I do this? Remember._

He pumped the jack and fought with the lug nuts. He’d apparently lost some strength during his time in the hospital. _Twenty years_ , he reminded himself — of course he wasn’t the same.

“Do you need some help?” a voice called over the dash.

“No — I’m okay,” he chimed back, keeping his head hidden.

“It’s a _very_ busy interstate — need to make sure you’re not injured in traffic.”

“I’m okay.”

Boots entered Martin’s vision, and his eyes followed up pants to a belt, a _gun_ — “ _Hello_ , officer,” he said overly sweet.

“You’re missing from the psych hospital,” the officer instantly recognized his outfit.

Martin wished he had a spork.

“Put the tire iron down,” the officer’s partner commanded from behind Martin.

 _And you think you’ve seen trouble, well you’re lookin’ at the man, uh-huh_ — “The Surgeon,” the officer commented once he had him cuffed. “Not exactly _precise_ anymore.”

It was hard to admit losing.

“Just out for a drive. No idea what you’re talking about.” He kept his smile wide, looking around for a way out of the predicament.

“Martin,” the voice behind him said.

“Picked up _Claremont Psychiatric_ off the rack at Macy’s? Or Penney's?” the officer in front of him asked.

They walked him back to the patrol car, and an officer’s hand on his shoulder pushed him into the back seat.

“ _Martin!_ “

Martin’s eyes flew wide open, taking in the red walls, the white ceiling, the blurry man in the periphery of his vision.

“Did you try snorting oregano again?” Mr. David asked, standing above him just beyond the red line.

Martin brushed off his shirt and sat up, his hair as wild as his dream. What meds had they given him? Surely they needed to adjust the dosage.

He had to get his business counterparts working on a better escape plan. _Now_. He considered covering a few more bases. He required phone time, clay time, _machine_ time — maybe he could make some new clothes.

 _The world’s own original hard luck story, and a hard time losin’ man_.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
